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Im beating my meat

oh my god matt and noah together

the pure degradation and humiliation that would come from the two of them

i could die

Yeah they’re 😔 Jesus Christ they’re so mean

Because they both like manhandling you and they’re so selfish about it :-/ Matt is fucking you from behind while Noah fucks your throat and neither one of them is concerned about the fact that they’re dragging you back and forth like a fuck doll so that you’re never empty :-/ after noah cums down your throat Matt is grabbing your hair and yanking you up so that you’re looking at Noah with cum and spit sliding down your chin :-/ Matt says “thank Noah for letting you suck his cock.” So you mumble “thank you” the best you can because your guts are still in a state of being relocated from Matt’s MCE situation but it’s not good enough for him so he slaps you directly on your clit and says “you can do better than that. He even let you eat his cum, stop being ungrateful.” And stupid Noah pipes up with “lots of girls less slutty than you would kill for the chance to suck my cock :-/ and you don’t even appreciate it :-/“ anyways they want you crying and begging for forgiveness :-/

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I'm honestly dying to finish I Hate You but I'm so stuck in writers block that I've hardly written a word in a month.

If anyone has any ideas pleaaaase throw them in my direction and I will give you so much love and credit!

I just wanna get back into my happy writing space cuz I miss it so much!

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For The Last Time | One

“It had been months since you’d seen each other, five and three days to be exact (not that he was counting or anything), months since you had broken up with him. You said it was for the best, that your careers were more important but Noah didn’t think so.”

What I thought was going to be a lil angsty one shot has become a multiple part cry fest ahhh. Here’s part one <3

I'm posting this because it's in my drafts x

My ao3 is HERE

Also let me know if you want to be tagged in any upcoming posts :)

CW: post break up, angst, Noah has lots of feelings, “talking” about feelings, loads of swearing

(Dropping this because it was burning a hole in my drafts and I just wanted to get it out there)

18+ MDNI | Noah Sebastian x Reader

“Thought I’d find you here.” Your voice reached Noah’s ears like a siren song and it was infuriating.

He turned slightly, watching you approach him in that dress, that fucking dress that hugged every single curve on your body so perfectly it made him feel crazy, feral. He had been trying his damned hardest to avoid you all night and of course you found him, cigarette between his tattooed fingers, on the balcony, moping.

“The party is wild in there.” You gestured to the balcony doors that were muffling the sound of chatter and loud music inside.

“Yeah, I just needed some quiet.” His voice was gruff when he spoke and it only made you roll your eyes.

It had been months since you’d seen each other, five and three days to be exact (not that he was counting or anything), months since you had broken up with him. You said it was for the best, that your careers were more important but Noah didn’t think so.

You see, Noah would have walked through fire, jumped in front of a bullet, he would have stolen the moon from the fucking sky if you asked him to but you didn’t feel the same and as much as it hurt to watch you walk away, he did because he loved you. Issue is, he just couldn’t get over you.

He had avoided you like the plague for months but it was getting progressively harder because you shared friends. Usually it was easy, he left when you showed up, he asked around to see if you were going to events so he could make excuses not to go. It was fine, he hated socialising at the best of times so it was no skin off his nose.

Then you showed up to the album release in that fucking dress and his heart just about dropped out of his ass. And the worst part? You had some six foot four Doberman energy gym rat on your arm. That’s when he found himself storming out to the balcony with a half drank bottle of Hennessy and a pack of cigarettes he had stolen off the kitchen island.

He didn’t dare look at you again, instead his eyes stayed trained on the twinkling lights of the city when you joined him at the railing, your warmth burning his skin like acid.

”How have you been?”

Well that was a loaded question. What was he meant to say? ‘Oh yeah, I’m fantastic, nice to see you, Y/N. Who’s the hunk?’ Nah. He would rather put his hand in a blender.

“Fine.” He wasn’t in the mood to talk to you. Instead he stubbed the cigarette out and took a long swig of the cognac, letting it burn down his throat in an attempt to quell the anger boiling in his blood.

He could feel you shift uncomfortably next to him and he had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. What did you have to feel uncomfortable about? You practically tore his heart out and curb stomped it. And to add a cherry on top of the shit icing, you decided his fucking album release party would be the best time to hard launch your new man.

Noah really, really wasn’t in the mood and he was practically begging the gods to make you just go inside and forget about it, enjoy your night and have fun but instead you reached out, took the bottle from his hands and took a huge swig.

Fuck.

“Shouldn’t you be with your date, Mick is it?” He finally grits through a clenched jaw.

You chuckle lightly. “It’s Mike, and he’s talking to Folio about fishing.”

Betrayer, of course he would be. Trust Folio to be rubbing shoulders with the enemy over fucking fishing poles.

Noah hums, running a hand through his recently cut short hair.

”It suits you, you know, short hair.” He turned to you fully with furrowed eyebrows. What was your game?

God you looked fucking beautiful, your hair was pulled back into a bun at the back of your neck, curled strands framing your face. Sharp wings of eyeliner made your eye colour stand out beautifully in the low light, along with those dark lashes and your lips were painted a shade of red that could only be described as unholy and fuck, he just wanted to feel them on his again.

”You think?” His voice was weak and he internally kicked himself for even looking at you because his knees felt weak and his stomach felt like it might explode.

You smiled that smile that he fell for all those years ago, reaching your hand out to brush a stray piece of hair from his eyes.

Yeah, he was well and truly fucked, done for, so fucking completely in love with you. He was never getting over you.

“Hey, we’re about to play the album.” Nicholas’ voice from the balcony door made you jump back away from Noah.

”See you inside, yeah?” He nodded at your words, watching you walk back inside to Mike, planting a soft kiss on the guy's cheek and Noah wanted to vomit.

Nicholas was staring at him with a smirk.

”Shut the fuck up.” Noah pointed at his best friend, grabbing the bottle of Hennessy before pushing his way inside.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Noah had been shifting uncomfortable in his seat, your narrowed eyes burning into him for almost an hour. You were clinging on to every fucking lyric he wrote and he knew he was in for it the moment you could get him alone again.

So as soon as the album had played through and chatter started up again, he was up on his feet, moving across the room before you could get to him.

”Hey, Noah isn’t it?” Oh for fuck’s sake. Mike held a hand out to him,

Noah hesitantly shook it with a smile that he was faking hard, gritting his teeth. “Yeah, nice to meet you…Mike?”

The taller man grinned. “Yeah, I’m Y/N’s boyfriend but I’m guessing you already know.”

Yeah, he fucking does know.

“It’s so sick that she knows you guys, I’ve listened to your last two albums and they go hard, man.”

Noah nodded, smiling, looking behind the guy to see you storming towards them with clenched fists.

“Look, Mike, I’m sorry to cut this short bu-“

“Hi babe, what are we talking about?” Fuck, you were now standing next to Mike, staring up at Noah with a false grin that screamed ‘I’m going to fucking kill you’.

”Oh, I was just telling Noah how much I fuck with the music babe.” Mike was completely unaware of the frustration bubbling in your bones, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

”That’s lovely.” You cooed, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Could you give Noah and I a second to talk, Folio is looking for you I think.”

Shit, shit, shit. There was no way he was getting out of it now. Mike leaned down to pull you into a kiss before strutting towards Folio and Noah just about wanted the ground to swallow him up right there and then.

”Downstairs, now.”

He had no choice but to follow you down the stairs like a lost dog, shuffling his feet as you stomped down the steps. As soon as you reached the outside, you turned to him with flailing arms.

”What the fuck is all that, Noah? You think that’s okay, airing our dirty laundry out like that?” You were seething, face turning beet red.

”It’s music, Y/N, not everything is about you.”

“Oh so ‘someone else’, ‘the death of peace of mind’ and what was the other one? ‘Bad decisions’? They’re not about me? Right…so the pretty much direct fucking quotes from our break up aren’t there? Sure.” You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest.

”First of all, it’s ‘somebody else’. Second of all, why does it matter? You’ve clearly moved on. I mean fuck me right?” He laughed incredulously, running a hand through his hair. “You said that you didn’t want to be with me anymore because your career was taking up all of your time and energy and then you show up here with a new guy, smushing face with him in front of me and my brothers like nothing happened. We were together for six fucking years, Y/N!”

He took a deep breath, chest heaving. You stared up at him with glassy eyes full of fire but he was past caring by that point.

”So forgive me, darling, for pouring my heart into my music. Our break up is still a fresh wound. I genuinely thought that we were gonna be end game and yeah, I’m not fucking over it. Did you even listen to ‘Just Pretend’, huh?”

A tear fell from your lashes onto your cheekbone, your face softening and Noah couldn’t watch. He hated the bullshit, the anger, the sadness. He just wanted to wrap you up in his arms and go back to when everything was okay, back when you were still his. Fuck, it was too much.

”Look, I’m sorry for shouting. I just find it really hypocritical of you to be going off at me like that when you completely blindsided me tonight.”

You nodded your head quickly, wiping the tears away with the back of your hand. He was right, you had no place to be upset when you had hurt him, really fucking hurt him.

Noah could hear Jolly calling his name from inside and he sighed. “Maybe we can talk about all of this over coffee sometime next week. It’s a conversation we really need to have, cut the loose ends so both of us can move on, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Your voice was quiet as a mouse, eyes trained on your shoes.

He wanted to reach out, pull you into his chest and comfort you but it wasn’t the right time, he didn’t think it would ever be. You had someone else to hold you and he was upstairs waiting.

“Text me, my number is still the same.”

With a sad smile, he turned, making his way back inside.

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Hey lovely people! It's been a while.

There's been a lot of things going on in my life and in the midst of it all I seem to have lost my passion and love for practically everything, especially my writing and I just wanted to come on here to tell you that my hiatus may be a long while longer while I try to get myself situated into the world again.

That being said, I miss this community tremendously and I hope one day I will come back to share my work again because the love that you guys have shown me has been extraordinary! I thank every one of you that has read and supported my drabble, you're the best!

I'm sending so much peace and love to you all, I hope you're all well ❤️

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SHHHHH IM THINKING !!!!! 🫢

(Medical Examiner Noah Sebastian?)

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❤️❤️❤️

Happy birthday to The Death of Peace of Mind 🥀

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Ya boi has drank 2 litres of iced coffee, created a new playlist and bought a fresh pack of cigs which meaaaaans...

WRITING SESH

I'm feeling so much better today. Sleeping for 13 hours really hits the spot fr

Also reminder that my requests are open and I would loooove to write some of your thoughts!! 🫡🖤

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put me in a room with Will Ramos and people would think we're having an argument cuz we both talk so passionately and loud as fuck

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Wow this is so beautiful written I'm in awe

Thank you for blessing us with this

strap the wing to me (death trap clad happily) || a Bad Omens fanfic

Pairing: fae!Noah x gender neutral reader (yes the smut is gn too)

Summary: He’s beautiful, so, so gorgeous, unless otherwise he’s completely grotesque, a scent of something eldritch you’d rather not acknowledge. When he kisses you, he tastes of burnt wax and antimony, straps candlewick wings to your aching back, and you don the death trap happily.

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: unbeta'd trash. overly flowery written pretty much entirely in prose. smutty smut smut. oral sex. just a tiny whiff of dubious consent by way of fae trickery

A/N: I drank a lot of wine and listened to Hozier on repeat the other night and then saw a very mind-meltingly beautiful pic of Noah on the dash and had a really weird dream and this is the result. Enjoy the ramblings xoxo Fern

Brainrot Club: @familiarscarsxelectrichearts @throughwoodsanddirt @cowpokeomens

Masterlist here.

Title taken from Sunlight by Hozier; banner made by @throughwoodsanddirt; dividers by @saradika

“You lost?” he asks, and that is what ruins you. You’ve heard the old stories of wicked fae-men and how to avoid them - beware strange beings in the wood, don’t stray from the path - but in all the stories, none author had bothered to mention they’d peek around a tree with wide, irresistibly innocent curiosity and ask you, You lost?

There’s a flash of a glint in his eye, a bare twitch in his lip predating what might’ve been a smirk, but you can’t help but smile at the childlike confidence in his voice, and then he smiles back and –

That too is your ruin. There perhaps hasn’t been a sweeter smile - not in your years, not in the years of all of time, you reckon - to grace a human being, and it steals your breath sure as he’d picked it from your pocket. He takes it as an offering, slinking around the trunk with the air of something much smaller, more slight than he; gravity must be a friend, lover, even, with the grace she offers to his motion.

His eyelashes flutter on his cheeks as you take his tattooed hand - an imperious command, or perhaps a childish invitation - granting you the proof of satisfaction you hadn’t known you’d been waiting for, a breath of relief expelling from its locked chamber you’d ignored until now. 

You stare, because how can you not? He is beautiful, yes, but his visage flickers from soft to vulpine with a flicker of shadow and moonlight, something inhuman, dangerous, alien turning well-bred beauty, like the kind some are just born with, masculinity encapsulated by that rare softness. 

He’s beautiful, so, so gorgeous, unless otherwise he’s completely grotesque, a scent of something eldritch you’d rather not acknowledge. Within a breath, he moves from shy, soft smiles to something aloof, something dangerously mischievous, something terrifying when the moon shines just so and you’re reminded of that glint in his eye. You only need blink for that chipped granite of his cheekbone and hardened brow to give way to that downy smile once more, like it had never gone.

You walk over roots, vines and ivies and he is barefoot, feet uncalloused and unscarred.

The trek back to the path is as treacherous as he warned, for which he never lets your hand go - vines threatening to trip you up with each step, roots growing where there were none minutes ago. He regales you with faerie-tales - his childhood, he calls it - and you follow his younger self through burrows and glades and loss and loss and loss and to the rivers and all the girls (and boys) that live in them, the monsters that he’d fought and the girls (and boys) he’d had there after, and to the mountains and still you follow and –

And he pauses, and you’re overcome with the bodily realization that you’re exhausted. You’re not sure how long you’ve walked, but your legs burn. Your feet are torn, shoes and socks evidently long gone somewhere along the way. Your head swims, and he barely turns before you collapse into him. 

You don’t register the hawthorn he’s pressed you up against, solid as stone, until the bark digs through your shirt to chip and stab at your skin, oozing wet warmth down your back that’s conflated blood and sap in your mind. A tsk from his mouth - the sound forms so prettily on his perfectly formed Cupid’s bow - produces a golden fruit in his hand, taken from a bush or his pocket, or somewhere else entirely. You’re too dizzy to follow the movement of his hand. It’s so splendidly shiny, citrine flesh pulled so taught it aches for just the single prick to burst the saccharine juice within. 

Before he even presses it to your lips, the scent makes your molars ache to grind it to a pulp. He teases it, hovering it before your mouth, reveling in your fight against the strong thigh he presses to your core to reach it. 

His fingers brush your lips when he finally acquiesces, and he blushes with a bashful smile like it’d been a mistake, and between his smile and the alchemically intoxicating scent of the fruit, you forget all about the warnings of eating Fae offerings and - 

It bursts like an eyeball with just the barest graze of your teeth, blessed wet rushing to coat your throat liquid as the taste has done to you; it is the sweetest, sharpest flavor you’ve tasted, salty too - though perhaps that’s the tears streaming down your face. Your core throbs a drumbeat. You’re nothing more than meat and nerves and blood in a sac of skin, pulsing as the seeds and pulp slither down your throat. 

Your head dips - involuntarily - to suck the sap from each digit. You want to wrap your legs around him, to grind shamelessly until you too are nothing but sap. 

When he kisses you, he tastes of burnt wax and antimony, straps candlewick wings to your aching back, and you don the death trap happily. 

He draws you down to the bed of moss with kisses and gentle strokes, soft and spongy and earthen and cool and moist beneath your naked skin. His great coat envelops you both, secreting beneath it the dance of his nails (not nails, but claws, unpainted black and whispering a deadly promise) along the planes of your burning, overstuffed skin. He swallows down your whimpers and gasps, curiosity painting his face lent by innocence to understanding his touch is the cause; too light a touch, you think, you need more. 

The callus of his fingers speaks of handiwork as they brush you, painting you red hot and wanting. He watches his brushes as they stroke lower with open fascination, like you’re the one alien and not he. 

You arch into him, begging for your flesh to be flayed from bone, for him to sink those razors he calls teeth down to the marrow. There they are at your chest, dangerously grazing the delicate pebble of your nipple, plump damp lips suckling it as though it is the fruit itself. There is his hand at your thigh, hot palm pressing your leg up his waist, clever, spindly fingers teasing the apex, wandering but never finding home. 

He laughs when you reach for him, for the heat beneath his trousers weighing heavy in the cradle of your hips. “Later,” he tells you, swallowing down your indignant whine before it can burst forth. Now, you want to beg, but then his hand reaches the destination you desire most, shackling you to the singular sensation in short, strong strokes, and you think, okay, later.

Your skin burns, stretched taught and oversensitive as he probes you, knuckles bulbs as they puncture the precipice, only the cool damp of the moss beneath you granting reprieve. You paw at it helplessly, unmoored, gripping up great chunks of it in Sisyphean effort to ground yourself against the fullness.  

He chuckles. “Never said you couldn’t touch,” he mutters against your belly, words muffled by your skin as the vibrations run straight through your core. Something ragged wrenches from you as you dive your hands in his hair, pulling at soft and silky and ink-dark even in the twilight canopy of the wood; a slippery purchase at best as he journeys downward, leaving lush, slick trails in the wake of his mouth that nearly steam against the cool of the breeze. 

He laughs, exultant, and curls those clever fingers inside you hard, bifurcating within you, plying and playing, and teasing and then, then, finally, his head dives between your legs. A hot breath first, a nudge of that pointed nose, then his wicked tongue, licking and lapping and curling, and then those sweet lips wrapping and sucking around you, tongue pressing until you’re reduced to faint breath, until you can only cling with the white static tuned to the red-earthen-hot tune of want. 

You come, spread apart like a dam on the moss. He leeches to you, stroking and sucking and curling and pressing until there’s nothing left in you but shallow heaves and twitching limbs. 

The smirk spreading his mouth when you finally settle in the cradle of his arms is so absurdly silly, so endearing and human, so real, you can’t help but laugh, curling drunkenly into it, each breath a stabbing pain you receive gladly. He gathers you, watching as you laugh, seeming pleased with himself as a cat with cream. 

Together, when you’re once again able, you gather what can be salvaged of your clothes. It’s not much, so he cloaks you in his coat, the unstarched fabric simultaneously stiff and soft against your bare skin, sliding silkily with each step. He guides you along by his lithe arm, veins dancing up the tattooed lengths like sinew upon bark, hand now sticky from being buried within you. 

The fallen leaves ease your way, damp earth gathering between your toes, sluicing off the pain with the cool of it. 

He leads you where? There is no door, no hawthorn trees nor spiderwebs, no shimmering air to pass through yet for a moment you are distracted, and then you are in the woods no longer. The walls are earthen, ancient vines thick as elk climbing like supporting pillars, illimitably, impossibly, reaching for nothing but night sky. The stars, though far above, seem sharper, tangible, and close as you might reach should you choose as you stare into the boundless void between; a darkness luring so sweetly you’d tumble into it for a single unsteady step. 

For the first time since he found you, you do not struggle to look away from him. Walls give way to great earthen colonnades, thousand-story balustrades housing hanging gardens of lady slippers and cowslips and columbines glimmering in the light of torches tall as men. Above it all is still the fathomless, terrifying sky, and everywhere there are people, throngs of faerie folk in every direction as far as you can see. Most pay you no mind but those that do, do so with blessedly parlous curiosity, curling lips clueing teeth that’d bite. 

The sheer number of colors and shapes and bodies has your memory grow fading, evanescent. Some have hooves or scales or feathers, beaks or antlers, and others - just a face the wrong side of sharp, limbs lengthened just past that boundary of eldritch. A few stand out: a man, long-haired and goateed who’d pass human were he not nearly twice the size of a regular man, with sclera deep as bitter licorice; another, flat-faced with the lightest eyes you’d ever seen, veins and sinew and muscle coiling and rippling beneath transparent skin; a creature you struggle to wrap your mind around, a great wolf’s maw forced where the young man’s mouth would be, slitted pupils twitching as he watches you pass, hackles raised. 

Your skin erupts in gooseflesh, and Noah bends his head to nip at it. 

There are three girls standing with heads bowed together, faces painted in warm knavery, identical in all but where they split the embodiment of moon, sun, and void. One’s hands look capable of melting your skin off, and another’s claws drip an ichor you’d let run poison deep below your sluicing skin as you’re blinded by the radiant glow of the third. 

You imagine them spreading you apart, tasting you, tasting them. You’re acutely aware of the heady sourness of your arousal, a scent so human amid bark and earth and animal scent, among burning floral oils.

They are beautiful. They are all beautiful, and you’re struck with a pang of precipitous, desperate hunger. You want all of them. Blisteringly. 

“All of them?” he chuckles, nuzzling the side of your face, insectile fingers gripping your jaw firm with practiced precision. “Greedy.”

Your veins already are hot, pulsing iron, overstimulated and frazzled, but now they spill crimson across your cheekbones, hairline tightening at the tone of his accusation. But he only coos, bringing you in with tangling arms round your waist. 

“Spare me,” he sighs against your temple. “Greed is good. You’ll have it all and more later. But first, let us sate that hunger.” Yes, let us, you think. You never could refuse his command. You hope he will feed you more of those delightful fruits.

[xx-like-a-villian-xx]

AMAZING

in love with the mess - day four

summary : Aubrey is going on tour and, for once, she’s decided to focus on having as much fun as possible. Oli can be a little shit but he does nothing short of adore Audrey and… well, maybe Noah a little, too. Noah likes the flirting, as long as no one gets too close, emotionally. But what will happen when the three of them take it too far?

content : fluff, flirting, the slightest hint of angst if you squint, some smut (nipple play, masturbation)

length : 5k

tags (let me know if you want to be tagged!) : @veronicaphoenix @cookiesupplier @lma1986 @jilliemiw86 @bngurngheart @lacktoesandtoddlerants @narcissisticbehavior81 @flowery-mess@shilohrosechicken@justeli6@starvingarsyn@floatinglikeaswan@somebodyels3

a/n : it’s getting more smutty, my friends!! enjoy the chapter 💗

•••

day four

I woke up in the middle of the night, sleepy and confused as to why I was conscious at all. It took me a moment to blink into the darkness and realise that a figure was standing next to the bed, instead of lying next to me in it. Noah was peacefully sleeping still, turned away from me now, his back touching mine, but Oli was moving about. I reached out for him, making him jump a little when I touched his leg as he was stood next to the bed.

“What are you doing?” I whispered, careful not to wake Noah as well. Oli hesitated, then sat back down on the bed, leaning down to me so I could hear him.

“I was gonna go back to my room.”

“Why?”

Keep reading

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🖤

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Not me reading I'd Love to Watch at work...

No cuz I keep rereading it and I'm like good lord where did that come from

The support on I'd Love To Watch has been insane! Stay feral my friends 🫡

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*writing in my diary using a glitter gel pen* I'm losing my sense of humanity

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Sending you lots of love and health, get better soon 💗

- blessedwithabadomen

Thank you so much, I adore you! 🥺💖

Rotting in bed watching Ergo Proxy right now, call it self care 🫠

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So it turns out...im a big stinky liar 😩

I'm currently actually really sick right now, like dying victorian child level ill so part 3 of I Hate You is at this point of time 3/4 of the way finished.

Hopefully tomorrow I feel a little better because I have too many thoughts to write and no energy to do it rn ahhhhh

(Pic is an actual representation of how I look typing this)

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I'm actually bouncing off the walls like a ping pong ball right now over this

Wonderful, amazing, perfect

Need me a whiny, slutty, sobbing Noah fr

Noah Sebastian x front of house tech OFC (Rooney) !!! This is an 18+ fic. Anyone who interacts with this fic/my profile and does not have an age in their bio will be blocked. This is also a work of fiction, with a fictionalized version of a real person. If it isn’t your thing, don’t read. Summary: “Noah Sebastian does not follow rules. He does not care for logic, no matter how sound. If you walk into a home that reeks of gas, you don’t light a match - common sense. Noah, however, is one to throw a lit Molotov through the living room window. He’s one to find pleasure in the way the flames lap at the night sky and singe his eyebrows - and then be surprised when it all implodes.

It’s unclear if he’s knowingly committing arson, eagerly awaiting the impending doom of the explosion, or if he’s plain stupid.” Word Count: 4.8k

Warnings/Tags: smut, hatefuck, degradation, rough sex, hands are thrown, blood is drawn, switch!Noah and switch!OFC, orgasm denial.

Author's Note: This is the hatefuck fic. Play Pull Out by Death From Above 1979 and BABY SAID by Måneskin on loop while you read this if you want the full experience. Betas: @rottingfern @the-way-of-words Banner: moi Tags: @thisbicc @pathion @to-be-written

Rooney shouldn’t be a hard name to remember. 

She’s heard it all: “Oh, like the actress?” and “Oh, like the band?” - hell, she’s been called “Rooney Bin”.

She’s one to give people the benefit of the doubt, to be accommodating. But she told him an hour ago - for the sixth time - and he’s still only referring to her as “sound girl”. He can’t see the daggers she’s staring into him past the stage lights, and maybe that’s for the best at the moment.

She grabs the talkback mic, cursing under her breath as she selects his IEM mix from the board. 

“What.” She doesn’t bother to hide the frustration in her voice. 

But of course, he doesn’t pick up on it. “I can’t hear myself.” 

She shrugs, throwing her free hand out to the side. “I don’t know what to tell you man, I’ve got you here, try messing with your in-ear mix.”

“No, sorry,” he chuckles. It’s arrogant and off-putting, feels like a tiny, nasty little bug crawling up the back of her neck. “I can’t hear myself in the house. I don’t think it’s loud enough,” he clarifies. “Can you turn it up?” 

She gives herself a figurative pat on the back for gently setting the mic down, rather than throwing it like she wants. Storming out from behind the board, she heads for the stage. Who cares if she’s making a scene; she knows she’s not the only person frustrated with him. He’s been a diva, sticking his nose where he doesn’t need to. “What if you used this lens for photos?” this, “We should take this route instead” that. The buck will stop with her.

As she crosses the floor, she feels the heavy gaze of her light tech, of the edgelord they brought on as their tour manager… of the two guitarists even. They’re all gawking at her. But she’ll be fucked if she doesn’t speak up, because evidently, she’s the only one with enough of a backbone to confront him. 

She’s halfway to the stage when Noah seemingly realizes why she hasn’t said anything in response to his request. He finds her past the stage lights, furrowing his brow as he pulls his other in-ear out - matching the one that hangs loosely off of his left ear. It's funny how he constantly fiddles with his in-ears: custom-fucking-made, and never actually in his ear where they belong. It’s certainly not the company’s fault - just his own selective listening.

“Come with me.” She barks when she approaches, curling her fingers to ask him to her level.

He begins to protest, brow still furrowed. “I—“

“You don’t get a choice.” It’s brash when it comes out. The quiet buzz of conversation around the room falls silent, and whoever hasn’t been looking is now. 

But hey, that means more eyes on him, and he probably loooves that.

“Get the fuck down here, we are going to talk!” She’s nearly shouting as she snaps her fingers and points at the ground in front of her, summoning him like he’s the dog that pissed on the carpet.

Rooney would like to think she looks scathing right now, her gaze unwavering as she waits for him to follow through. But he’s just standing there, staring at her with a hint of a smirk on his face, like she’s the idiot. It makes her want to wring his pretty neck.

Who is she kidding, that tattoo doesn’t do anything for his neck. Would look better covered up. 

But he’s still pretty. And he fucking knows it, with the way he holds his chin high, always looking down his nose at those around him. The glossy, mirror-shine foundation and glittery smokey eye he dons tonight don’t help, either.

If she’s honest with herself, they all look good. But she wants to mercilessly remove Noah‘s makeup with a Lysol wipe and rub his skin raw, if anything to make it memorable when she sticks the needle in the swollen balloon that is his ego.

It feels like time drags as she waits for him to respond. “Don’t waste your time, Davis.” She snaps as she raises her eyebrows, growing more impatient and anxious as their audience watches with baited breath.  With a roll of his eyes, he hops off the stage. She doesn’t bother waiting for him to catch up as she slams the door open and storms through. On any other day, the unmistakable sound of his body colliding with the metal door would make her laugh, but today she’s got a one-track mind. It seems like he might actually rise to the occasion and act like an adult, because he’s walking with a sense of urgency to keep up with her, though she knows better than to bargain on that, sadly. He’s a showman at his core, and he knows how and when to please to get what he wants.

Not like that, though. She’s not thinking about that.

After weaving through the halls backstage, she settles on one of the gear storage rooms. Calling it a room is a bit generous - it’s more like a walk-in closet with an empty road case. It’s not optimal, but it’s far enough from the auditorium that they’re unlikely to have any visitors.

It’s a bit humbling, how she clumsily pats the wall, looking for a light switch. But she finds it once he’s inside, shuts the door, clicks the lock into place, and turns to him. The overhead light - a single amber bulb covered in dust - doesn’t do much. If she wanted to see the flecks of color in his eyes, she’d have to be toe to toe with him.

Still, he’s infuriatingly gorgeous as the high points of his face glow under the dim light. Heat rushes to her face, but it’s unclear what causes it - anger, anxiety, or something else. Once she reminds herself why they’re there, it’s not hard to push the thought away. 

Pretty faces sure can’t hide ugly expressions though, she’s reminded as he scowls, arms folded over his chest as he towers above her. “What the fu—“

He’s reedy. 

Whiny. 

Fingernails on a fucking blackboard.

“No!” She barks, pointing a finger at his chest. He takes a small step back, eyes widening ever so subtly, like he doesn’t fucking expect this. Of course he doesn’t think this shit will happen to him. “You’ve said more than enough, for Christ's sake! Not everyone loves the sound of your voice! So you shut the fuck up!”

He remains in place as she takes another step closer.

“You are not the one behind the booth, you don’t know what it sounds like. You do NOT get to tell me how things sound in the house. While we’re talking about hearing - which you’re awful at - let’s talk about the fact that you don’t fucking listen.” 

She takes another step toward him, leaving maybe two feet between them. The smallest of frowns tugs gently at the corners of his mouth, and she takes note that his chapped lower lip is peeling. From here, she can make out some of the pores that dapple his cheeks. 

He drives her up the fucking wall. “When I tell you to do something, you better fucking do it, because I could fuck your career with the push of a button. I have been in this industry for nearly a decade - I could ruin you, Davis.” She utters through gritted teeth as she holds his unamused gaze. “So no, I am not your sound girl, and you will not infantilize me. Stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. What did she expect - for this to sink in, for her to be the thing that gets through to him? If anything, he’ll cry for Dierkes to get rid of her. Then, she’ll be out of a job, and worse - he’ll still be a selfish, entitled prick. What the hell makes this worth losing a job? What the hell makes this worth her breath?

“Know what?” She shrugs, hands landing at her sides with a slap. “I’m done talking. I thought you’d be different, but you’re just another sex, drugs, rock and roll motherfucker. Too busy eyefucking the front row as they scream your name.” 

Now, he clenches his jaw, his hands curl into fists at his sides, eyes turn black with vitriol, and oh, it is delightful. How dare she think this would be all for naught. She wraps her hand around the doorknob, turning it as she murmurs her final blow: 

“Surprised you don’t add cunt to your rider.”

The door is halfway open when he lets out a small snicker. Slowly, she turns back to him, and his shoulders shake as he fights to bite back a laugh. Unfortunately for him, it’s growing into a giggle, then cascading into a cackle. It shouldn’t be a surprise to her; this is undoubtedly a power play, but something about it catches her off guard. Putting her hands on her hips, she waits for him to regain composure, admittedly curious to hear his guaranteed stupidity out.

After what feels like eternity but is realistically fifteen seconds, his laughter begins to die down. He runs his hand over his face, resting his chin on his palm, just underneath the sleaziest of smirks. The look in his eye is devilish, like he’s winding up to punch. 

“Don’t need to do that when I have one in front of me.”

Noah Sebastian does not follow rules. He does not care for logic, no matter how sound. If you walk into a home that reeks of gas, you don’t light a match - common sense. Noah, however, is one to throw a lit Molotov through the living room window. He’s one to find pleasure in the way the flames lap at the night sky and singe his eyebrows - and then be surprised when it all implodes.

It’s unclear if he’s knowingly committing arson, eagerly awaiting the impending doom of the explosion, or if he’s plain stupid. Either way, time slows down as the door slams shut, and Rooney’s closed fist soars toward him.  He looks so idiotic, with his eyes wide, with his smirk disappearing as he realizes she’s swinging, and she doesn’t know what's prettier - the metallic shine of his eyeshadow or the glint of fear in his eye.

His hand catches hers before she can land the hit. The impact pushes him against the wall, and his other hand claws at her tee, pulling the fabric taut against her back.

As she tumbles into him, she wedges her knee between his thighs. Her left hand slides into his hair, tugging at the root with a ferocity that makes him wince as his head hits the wall with a resounding thump. She wrestles her right hand out of his grip, opting for a slap across the face, rather than a punch. 

Somewhere, someone is screaming obscenities. It might be both of them, but it’s lost among a maelstrom of hands trying to land blows or find purchase. There’s no grace or dignity, no rationale. 

She tries to wrestle him once again, but his hands have an iron grip on her hips and have no trouble subduing her. In her own move of assertiveness, she weasels her right hand between them to grip his clothed cock. To her pleasant surprise, his slacks hide nothing - he’s rock hard, and he’s not wearing anything underneath them.

His eyes flutter shut, and she knows she’s got him right where she wants him: below her upper hand, breathing heavily, cheeks flushed, brow crumpled in embarrassment and defeat, and God damn it’s his best look yet.

She tsks. “Wow.” When he opens his eyes, they’re black, the ire and humiliation now mixing with want. “You’ll really fuck anything, won’t you?” 

It’s bruising how his calloused fingers dig into the back of her neck to bring her lips to his. Her teeth dig into the inside of her upper lip as she collides with him, and it’s a scramble of teeth and tongues with no end in sight as they slide against each other’s open, hot, wet mouths. 

“You fucking suck at this.” Her retort is muffled against him. He grabs her jaw, pulling her off of him with a wet smack.

“Not like you give a shit.” He grits, brow crumpled. She grabs his collar with both hands, spinning around and shoving him backward. At this, he grabs her by the front of her pants, pulling her with him as his ass unceremoniously hits the road case. Her knees hit the case with enough force that they buckle, her open mouth painfully crashing into his closed one. To Rooney, this feels too close to a romcom - too close to unbridled, gushy, fluffy passion. Something she’ll never, ever feel for Noah Sebastian.

His hands are at the front of her pants, fingers still trying to wedge themselves between her skin and waistband. Her hand slides between their faces, pushing them apart, covering his mouth and nose clumsily. Under her grip, his warm, slimy tongue slithers out of his mouth, licking her palm, passing over the spaces between her fingers, and it’s so fucking invasive that her lip repulsively curls. 

How very fucking elementary of him. 

Without hesitation, she uses this now lubricated hand to strike his cheek again, before wrenching it in his hair, set on pulling until he cries ‘uncle’. It’s no use though: his eyes snap right back to her belt line, his jaw set in concentration as his fingers scramble for purchase.

Once they find it, he fumbles with the button of her Carhartts, the grind of the zipper teeth echoing as they traitorously slide open on their own. The raw denim scrapes her thighs as he rips them down her legs, and in his impatience, his fingers punch through the lace of her panties, tearing them beyond repair.

Immediately, his eyes blankly lock on her cunt, freezing completely. It feels vulnerable, hungry, like she’s a zoo animal. Before he can look for too long, she’s reaching past his arms, fighting and tearing a hole in his threadbare tank top as she wrestles it over his head. When he lowers his arms, he tries to cup her, but she shoves his hand away as she reaches for the button of his pants. 

She doesn’t bother to pull his pants down, only unbuttons and unzips them before wrestling his cock out, too moved by seething anger as she barely stumbles out of the pool of fabric to straddle him on the road case.

As she lowers herself, it’s not really clear who moves first - if he thrusts in, or if she’s able to seat herself on her own - but in one swift move, they’re flush against each other.  It’s a million sensations at once. It burns, it stretches, something itches painfully deep in her core. She’s determined to use him only to scratch that itch - to release the boiling rage within her - as nothing more than a means to an end. 

There’s no aim to make him feel good, but he’s so needy, so slutty that he’ll probably get drunk off of her cunt. If so, she can use it to her advantage. She’s not worried about her satisfaction, either. Because satisfying her would mean showing her an ounce of care, and Noah could never do that.  “Oh, fuck -” She slaps her hand over his mouth, muffling him as the head of his cock hits right where she needs it most. 

Who cares if he likes it? He’s all high pitched and breathy when he whines, and he sounds like an absolute pussy. She doesn’t wanna hear it.

The pain subsides as she repeatedly, ferociously  slaps against him. She hadn’t really given him the chance for any foreplay, though she doubts he’d oblige her if she did, and so the vise grip of her cunt around his cock goes two ways, a tearing sensation on her end she’s too angry to do anything about except power through.

Her grunts of pain swell into cries through gritted teeth, her head cranes back as each yell makes her tighten around him. Under her hand he breathes heavily, letting out soft groans that could be from pleasure or anger. 

She’d like way more of the latter.

She rolls her head forward and looks him straight on, getting in his face as he wildly thrusts. “Is this what it fucking takes to get you to do what I want?” It’s all venom, all spitting rage as she hisses.

Rooney is no stranger to the way men go completely dumb when they’re hard, blood rushing in the opposite cardinal direction of their brains, and Noah is no different as he moves his hips with hers. He whines under her hand, and sadly, it doesn't make him more bearable. Doesn’t help how his brow is all crumpled, either, or that his thumbs are driving themselves into the fleshy part next to her hip bones, bound to leave bruises tomorrow.

“Fucking… attention whore,” She grunts, struggling to get her words out.

And for what reason? This isn’t pleasurable. The way his eyes roll is annoying. The way his hot breath turns her hand tacky as he groans is disgusting. “You only listen to the women who get your dick wet?” She taunts. At this, his eyes shoot open, dark and angry under his furrowed brow. He sits up straight, swatting her hand away from his mouth with his forearm before covering her mouth with the palm of one hand, the other on the back of her head. Wrenching his fingers in her hair creates a gentle tug at the roots as he forces eye contact. “No.” It’s eerie, sincere when he says it, like she’s somehow crossed a line, gotten too close to home. There’s a pang of fear that turns in her stomach, and he must feel it, because he grinds into her every so subtly, gaze still locked on her. “I like it better when they’re quiet.”  Quiet. 

She’ll give him quiet. She’ll give him silent. But she won’t make it fun. Without another thought, she sinks her teeth into the palm covering her mouth, her canines breaking skin with a soft pop.

“Oh fuck you, bitch!” Noah cries out, pulling his hand back. Unceremoniously, he pulls her off his cock, towering over her as he spins her around, pushing her head into the road case with a thud. His hand slides down, square between her shoulder blades, applying a glorious pressure as the cool plastic presses into her tits. 

He offers no mercy, fully sheathing himself in one swift, noisy thrust. The squawk she lets out when his hips slap against her ass can’t be helped. He leans forward, presses against her back, lips brushing the shell of her ear as he whispers: “Look at that, who knew the sound girl made such pretty sounds?”

God, if heads could inflate, his would have popped by now with how puffed up his ego is. He wastes no time pounding into her, and it takes every ounce of her willpower to stay quiet - not because he wants that, but because she refuses to gratify him. He must be able to sense her struggle, because he lets out a low, confident chuckle. “Yeah, that’s fucking right,” He grunts. “Take it, whore.”

Rooney squeezes her eyes shut, and the stars that flash at the corners of her eyes grow brighter every time he bottoms out. Tears start to spill over and wet her eyelashes as he relentlessly thrusts again, again, again, again. It’s so much: the way she’s deliciously, painfully stretched around him, the sound of his heavy breaths as her hands claw at the case to find purchase, desperate to gain back some semblance of control.

Someone keeps howling - it sounds like her, but there’s no way it’s her, right? He’s not forcing his tank top into her mouth like a bit for a horse because she’s loud… right? “Jesus, you don’t shut up.” He grumbles, and she can hear the annoyed eye roll in his tone. “Prettier when you’re quiet.” He pulls the tank top tighter, yanking her head back, creating an arch in her back. He pulls so hard it feels like corners of her mouth could tear at any moment. The ribbed cotton absorbs her spit, forces her tongue into her mouth, makes her gag, all while he rearranges her guts…it’s too much.

But not enough, goads the still, small voice in her head. No. 

Not him. Absolutely not. He’s using his siren song to pull her deeper. 

She won’t succumb. The buck stops with her.

He uses the tank top to pull her head up, making her back arch further as his other hand slides up her sternum to rest on her neck. 

“I could do this alllll fuckin’ night, you know…” He goads in her ear, still pounding into her like it’s nothing. 

“But I don’t think I can say the same for you.”

His thrusts become annoyingly slow. The more he slows, the more she can feel her rationale returning. They shouldn’t be doing this, he’s enjoying this too much, and that’s not what she wants. If she saw herself in a mirror right now, she’d be so disappointed.

“I can feel you pulsing around me - you’re right there, aren’t you?” He teases low in her ear.

Hell, on second thought, she doesn’t need a mirror to be disappointed. 

His breath is hot on the shell of her ear when his hand returns to her neck, pulling her flush against his front. “I know you want to,” he hums. His fingers minutely tighten on her throat, hovering just a bit too long. He’s checking her pulse, she realizes. He makes some sort of hysterically giddy noise in her ear, one that doubtlessly heralds a shit-eating grin, if she could see him.   “Oh, you want to soooo bad,” he sings all sotto voce. It’s so not hot. “But then you’d lose.”

The hand on her neck slides down, palming a breast over her t-shirt, coming down to rest over her pubic bone just inches away from where she’d want him, if she wanted him. 

“So, you have two options.” His lips brush the shell of her ear as he negotiates. “You use your words, and admit that you love this cock…” 

Never. He asked for quiet, she’ll give him quiet.

But his fingers slowly, slowly slide down, the calloused pads spreading her outer labia to graze over her clit and for the love of God he better not put pressure on it - 

“…or I’ll make you show me.”

He would have gotten his way if he hadn’t opened his mouth.

Before he has a chance to press down, she acts. There’s a twinge of regret in her chest when she throws her elbow into his stomach. But when he groans in pain, when his hands lift off of her, when she realizes this is her chance, it’s not hard to push it aside. 

She turns to him, tank top now balled in her fist, and he looks like an absolute fool - doubled-over, arms around his midriff as he tries to catch the breath that was knocked out of him - all while his swollen, pink cock protrudes from his jeans. 

Maybe her mouth waters at the sight of it, maybe she looks a beat longer than she should, but she chalks it up to biological instinct. She pushes him to the ground, and he falls on his back, legs bent in the air as a poor attempt to shield himself. He still looks stupid, she thinks. Like a fucking armadillo. 

She falls to her knees, pushing his thighs flush to the ground on either side of her, sinking her nails into his legs for an extra dose of venom. 

His cock rests against his stomach, the tip of her tongue licks a long stripe up the shaft, swirling around the head of his cock, and she swears she feels his legs shake as he whines “Baby…”

Pathetic! 

Buuut… what else can he do?

She straddles him, grinding her soaked pussy against his cock as she wraps the tank top around her pointer and middle fingers. As she rubs her clit over the head of his cock, he convulses, back arching involuntarily. “Please…” he sighs, his half-lidded eyes and crumpled brow meeting her unfazed eyes.

Perfect.

She shoves the tank top in his mouth. When his teeth try to clamp through the layers of cloth around her fingers, she shoves the top deeper, satisfied when he lurches as he gags around them. Once she pries her fingers loose, the same hand that gagged him curls closed, and she deals the right hook she’s been dying to throw; though it doesn’t land with as much might as she wishes.

Still, his head swings to his right, and another wave of gratification surges through her as lets out a long, muffled howl. Tears well in his eyes when he reorients himself, gagging around the top once more. She smiles, taking his jaw in her hand, shaking his head slowly from side to side. 

“Pretty boy.” She bites.

Is calling him “pretty boy” really a blow to his esteem if his eyes flutter shut as he lets out a muffled moan? All signs point to no, but it feels so good, so powerful to say.

With her other hand, she lines him up at her hole and sinks onto him tortuously slowly. This time around, the heat blossoming in her core is less painful, more pleasurable as the tip of his cock gives way to glass bottle girth.

Rooney’s pleasure is amplified tenfold when a single, sparkly black tear trickles down his cheek. He’s halfway inside of her when she stops, thighs trembling as she fights to hold as still as possible. Slowly, his glassy eyes open, framed so beautifully by his smudgy, running eyeshadow. She holds his weary gaze with her diabolical one, smiling vindictively as she drops onto him. He flits between pants and sobs as she bounces on his cock. His hands claw at the backs of her legs, desperate for mercy that she isn’t inclined to grant him - in fact, she’d like to stick her finger in the wound and wriggle it.

She pulls her bra and shirt above her breasts, revealing her tits to him. He keens as he watches her tits bounce with her, hands moving to her ass, nails digging in and scratching as she moves. Tears stream down his face now, streaks of makeup being taken with them, his cries growing closer and closer together as his body tenses.

He’s close. Good for him.

“Aww,” She coos, plastering a smile across her face. ”Are you gonna come? You wanna come, pretty boy?” To her, her tone is taunting, degradation veiled with sympathy.

It’s really a shame that he’s falling for her trap, but he looks so pretty as he nods fervently, unwiped tears now trailing down his neck. He’s putty in her hands, subservient to her every move. 

Right where she wants him.

She smirks, locking eyes with him as she stands, his dick springing free from her cunt. 

“Too fucking bad.” 

The muffled howl that heaves from his chest has made this all worth it. His eyes are wrenched shut as he rolls onto his side, arms wrapped around his torso. He’s sniveling, his body racking as his cock empties itself onto the carpet beneath him. 

Truly, it’s pitiful, but it looks so sexy from where she stands. She looks on, reveling in the way he lurches and whimpers with each spurt.

As he catches his breath, she reaches for her pants.

“Fuck...” He gasps, while a string of drool hangs out of his mouth, connected to the tank top which lies next to his head now. “You.” 

Once she buttons them, pocketing her torn panties (he doesn’t get to take home a trophy), she crouches to his level, grabbing him by the hair, lifting his head and forcing him to look her in the eye. “Listen to me from here on out.” She snaps. He lies there, catatonic, eyes glazed over as he fights to catch his breath. She spits on his face, which makes him flinch, face all scrunched up as the majority of it lands between his brows. “I meant it when I said I could ruin you.”

His head falls to the ground when she lets go. She rises, leaving the door wide open as she walks out, leaving him to sort through the rubble of his own crime scene.

That night, as the tour bus softly sways with the motion of the road, her hand slips beneath the covers at the thought of Noah’s head buried in her pussy, his limbs tangled with hers as he kisses her. 

To her surprise (and horror), she doesn’t hate the visual.

[xx-like-a-villian-xx]

HELP. ME.

credit in photo